


Sink to the Bottom

by acanismajor



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anger Management, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Illness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acanismajor/pseuds/acanismajor
Summary: In dead-beat North Daiba, Keith's looking for an epiphany. Then, Lance arrives to town.AKA the one where Keith has anger management issues, and Lance is an escapist, afraid of the dark.(tags will be added as the story progresses)





	1. North Daiba

_“I don't care if it hurts_

_I want to have control”_

_Radiohead, Creep_

 

* * *

 

 _Today’s the day._ The sun isn’t up yet, which means neither is the neighborhood. The town’s cloaked in a stillness you can find in a painting. The seagulls are perched silently at the docks and the yachts wobbling carefully in the ocean. They don’t move, not that much, don’t gawk. Just looking out at the brightening horizon, with the chilly dawn wind ruffling their feathers, and waiting for the sun to come up.

 

Times like this, Keith thinks he can do anything. Times when the raging Pacific is this quaint... small waves over big waves over small waves. In a pattern Keith syncs with his breathing as he jogs. Today’s the fucking day. Keith hurries his pace, so the wind is sharper on his face. Chilly. Today’s the day he gets his shit together. The day he fixes himself up, finally. Today’s the day he leaves this godforsaken town.

 

 _You are leaving North Daiba._ A road sign says up ahead.

 

 _I could just jog out of here if I wanted right now,_ Keith thinks.

 

And he does, breathing labored. He runs up to it, the federal reminder that he can get himself out of this - whatever this is.

 

He runs past the heaps of junk the town hoped to recycle but forgot about. Rusty engine parts and plastic bottles and pepsi cans overflowing behind a chain-link fence. The faint thought at the back of his head that he’s become one of them by now - abandoned trash at the edge of town, something that should’ve been settled ages ago but wasn’t.

 

He runs, past the gas station, where few cars have stopped. _But not to stay_ , Keith thinks. No one comes to North Daiba to stay. It’s always gas, or a 7/11, or a short vacation, or whatever this is that Keith is doing here. A breath? A break? A home?

 

He _runs_. Not really sure what from, and only vaguely aware of where to. What’s after North Daiba anyway? Naxsela? Sen Fama? What’s after North Daiba? A better ocean? A better job? A better him?

 

He runs, and he doesn’t notice his breathing go uneven, losing the rhythm of the ocean. He doesn’t notice the heat rising up to his head, the sweat dripping down into his chest, the sun that has come up. Keith runs, and he runs, and he runs, then he stops.

 

The sunlight reflects on the grimy sign that towers over Keith. _You are leaving North Daiba_. It’s teasing him. _You are leaving North Daiba_. It’s mocking him. _You are leaving North Daiba_. It reminds him.

 

He drives his fist at the metal holding up the sign. “Fuck!” He grunts. The vibration jumps back into his bones, searing pain up until his elbow. He takes his fist inside his other hand, closes around it. Small waves over big waves over small waves. It’s the hurt that lets him breathe.

 

The reason he’s in North Daiba, and the reason he can’t leave, is because he’s properly fucked up.

 

* * *

 

Keith prepares an excuse for work but when he gets to Marmora, half of Kolivan is buried under an old pick-up truck, humming and probably too uninterested to even notice the fresh blood peeking through Keith’s bandaged and swollen hand, much less ask about it.

 

“What you got for me, boss?” Keith asks, propping himself on one of the motorcycles sent to the garage for them to fix.

 

There’s a screech when Kolivan slides off the pick-up, half muscle, half man-braid. “That came for you, kid,” He tells Keith, gesturing to the side where an air conditioner was placed, significantly less dusty than everything else in the garage (including Kolivan).

 

“Some old woman in the farmer’s market,” He gets up. Kolivan talks but it’s more rumbling than talking, with his intimidatingly deep and hoarse voice. “Asked if I was working for a ‘Keef’, and I gone and told the nut _no_ , the Keef was working for _me_. So I got a couple grams of lettuce free, and you got this AC to fix. Get on it.”

 

Kolivan takes a glance at the bandages but doesn’t linger so long. He’s a blessing like that. You know he’s probably judging you, but he does it in a way that could be given the benefit of the doubt.

 

“You can work, no?” Kolivan asks after gulping down an entire bottle of water like it’s good brandy.

 

Keith only nods, and heads over to the broken AC. Tools rustle in both sides of the garage. Eventually, Kolivan gets the tired of the random clinking of metal and steel, and probably of the seagulls which have started to gawk around by this hour. He turns the radio on. It’s some obscure station that doesn’t seem to play anything past 2008. The DJ says the next song’s called “I’m Gonna Be” by some band called The Proclaimers. _It’s alright_ , Keith thinks.

 

They work in silence like they always do.

 

Keith’s halfway into screwing the AC back together (his jacket discarded, his sweat shimmering, his hair – long overdue for a haircut – sticking to the back of his neck and to his forehead) when the thought hits him.

 

Given, the woman at the farmer’s market didn’t get his name right, it’s kind of endearing, now that he thinks about it, that he’s starting to get sought out now.

 

 _Means I’m good at my job_ , he thinks.

 

Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s destined to fix old women’s air conditioners for the rest of his life. He’s doing alright as a mechanic. Well, he’s scraping by. He has to fill in some hours at the diner, sure. But so far he’s been paying rent on time. And Kolivan’s doing okay. Not starving for sure. Doesn’t seem like a bad future, surely nothing like what his foster parents thought up with the weapons and the national security and everything, but probably, hopefully, enough. And maybe that’s it. The big epiphany. Maybe that’s what this AC means right now.

 

 _Maybe it means I’ve been here too long_ , he thinks _._

 

He dusts off the AC unit. How long has it been anyway? Couple of months? Half a year? It’s surely long enough to only vaguely remember the reason he came to this town in the first place. You have a mantra long enough it becomes just static. _I will get my shit together_. He’s been saying it from day 1, and now it’s just words. He’s so good at fixing ACs and other people’s broken things, but his brain, and his fists, have been ticking time bombs for at least a year, and he can’t even do anything about it.

 

His fist stings. Keith didn’t notice his hands clenching until his injury gives him a reminder bone-deep. _Cool out, Keith_. He tells himself. _Cool the fuck out._ He unclenches, setting the fabric he was wiping the AC with down. Small waves over big waves over small waves.

 

Blink-182’s on the radio like it’s 1999.

 

Small waves. _I took my time. I hurried up._ Over big waves. _The choice was mine, I didn’t think enough._ Over small waves.

 

“Good as new,” Keith tells Kolivan, who’s welding oddly-shaped steel together with a single, ragged glove, and a Ray Ban as a “protective gear”.

 

“Cool. Thanks, kid,” Kolivan shouts over the shrieking sound of welding.

 

“Need any help with that truck?” Keith offers, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

 

The welding stops, and Kolivan takes off his Ray Ban to check his work. “A pair of hands would help, if you had any,” he looks at Keith’s bandaged hand. “But you don’t, so”

 

Keith’s tempted to put the hand behind his back but didn’t want to give Kolivan the satisfaction. Instead he summons the excuse he thought up specifically for the situation. “Yeah, I—”

 

“Just,” Kolivan interrupts him, sighing. “You kids, you always let your emotions get ahead of you. Stop doing that.”

 

Keith nods awkwardly at that. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

 

“Right, now get out of here,” Kolivan gets up, walking towards the truck, but stops halfway. “Maybe drop by the diner on your way, Allura says she’s got a job for us, but I can’t be down to meet her anytime soon,” he says, putting his Ray Ban back on. “I need to do a resuscitation.” He slides under the car again.

 

“Sure. Diner. Gotcha,” Keith grabs his jacket and leaves.

 

Two steps out, he fumes. That’s the whole fucking problem. He’s not the facilitator of his emotions, they’re the facilitator of him.

 

* * *

 

Three PM is too late for lunch, but too early for dinner. Certainly too late for breakfast, but Hunk serves him bacon, eggs, and toast with a smiley drawn with butter. Keith’s feet dangle on the round chairs at the counter when he eats, because the piece of metal you’re supposed to rest your feet on has turned half-rust.

 

“What happened to your hand?” Hunk asks, wiping oil off his hands into his _Over My Dad Body_ apron, and settling down in front of Keith for, god forbid, a chat. He’s no Kolivan.

 

“Just an incident at work,” Keith lies, shoving more bacon in his mouth in hopes Hunk will just leave and let him eat in peace.

 

Hunk doesn’t even wait for him to finish chewing, “What happened at work?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Keith shoves the bacon down with coffee, then answers, “Welding machine. Hand. Hurt.”

 

“You really should be careful, man. You get into a lot of accidents at work,” Hunk says, genuinely worried for some reason like they were good friends (or maybe they were. But you’re not supposed to make friends at a town you’re gonna leave anyway. He really has been here for too long.)

 

“Yeah,” Keith replies. “Thanks”

 

There’s a screeching of tires outside, then a bell rings over the door, welcoming a guest. Hunk shoots off of his chair in front of Keith (thank God) and puts on a smile like _they’re_ good friends with this stranger that just came in.

 

In his peripheral vision, Keith makes out tan skin and a gigantic hiking bag that the stranger propped up on the seat beside Keith. He sips his coffee silently.

 

“Welcome to The Castle of Lions!” Hunk chirps. “What can I get ya?”

 

“Hi! Wow, cool, it’s so retro”

 

 _Probably one of the unfortunate people who got scammed by the Mayor’s flawless marketing of the North Daiba beaches_ , Keith thinks. The beaches are substandard at best. It’s more birds shitting everywhere than sand. And there’s not nearly as much palm trees as they try to make it out to be. _He’ll probably leave soon,_ Keith thinks. _When he gets to know the place, he’ll realize. North Daiba ain’t shit._ Keith envies him for having the opportunity to leave at all.

 

“Keith!” Allura pops round the back kitchen in a pantsuit, taking a seat at the counter beside him. “Oh, god, have I kept you waiting?”

 

“Not at all,” Keith shakes his head. He wants to ask about the pantsuit but he wasn’t sure if it was actually a weird thing to wear, especially being Allura.

 

“I just came from Altea, um, sorting some business out, so, pantsuit” Allura explains, reading Keith’s mind. Her tone and accent could convince Keith she can actually read minds, no question.

 

“Sure, sure. It’s no bother, what did you want to tell Koliv—”

 

“Oh my god, Princess Allura?” The stranger sitting beside Keith seemingly transported into the middle of their conversation, beaming at Allura like he’s seen a real-life alien. “I—I’m, I love you”

 

Keith furrows his brows and stares in… disgust? Confusion? Bit of both.

 

“ _Princess_?” Hunk asks from across the counter.

 

Allura is mildly flustered at the situation. “Ah, yes, I forgot to tell everyone, I’m—”

 

“Miss Altea! I can’t believe I’m meeting you right now, what are you doing in North Daiba?” The stranger gasps. “It’s destiny, isn’t it? I’m here, you’re here—”

 

“You’re a beauty queen?” Keith asks softly. That would explain a lot, actually. How tall she is. Her poise. Her unparalleled beauty. Why she smells so good all the time.

 

“They _actually_ call you Princess?” Hunk snorts.

 

“I’m Lance, by the way, Princess,” The stranger says, now literally in the middle of Keith and Allura, propping his elbow on the counter and leaning onto it.

 

Keith takes this time to chuckle, hand over his mouth. Princess Allura. Damn. Do they know how savage this woman is, I mean, sure, her beauty is definitely one-in-a-million, but Keith knows Allura can kick his ass man-to-man if she wanted. Kolivan learned that the hard way.

 

“Yes, yes, everyone,” Allura stands up, diplomatic. “I _am_ Miss Altea. Two years in a row. Yes, they do actually call me Princess, hence, this” she points at Lance, who smiles even wider if that was still even possible. “And hello, Lance.”

 

“Will you sign my forehead? I won’t wash it ever again,” Lance says excitedly.

 

Allura pulls out a memo pad and a pen from her purse. ( _No normal person would just have a memo pad in their purse, of course she was a beauty queen,_ Keith thinks.) She signs it and then gives it to Lance.

 

“I wouldn’t want you to never wash your forehead again,” she explains. “Now, if everyone will excuse us, I need to speak to Keith here about business.”

 

She gestures at Keith to follow her, and he bolts up off of his chair, following suit, unsure why he was nervous.

 

When the _Authorized Personnel Only_ room closes, Lance turns to Hunk. “Give it to me straight—” Lance squints at Hunk’s nametag, “ _—_ Hunk. Are they fucking?”

 

Hunk laughs with his mouth wide open. “Keith and Allura? Not a chance.” Hunk squints his eyes. “They’re both single, though…”

 

“Oh?” Lance grins. “Cool, cool.”

 

* * *

 

Apparently it was p _ah_ rfect that Keith came instead of Kolivan, as his long list of broken AC ladies seem to only grow from now on.

 

It was a long meeting with Allura, not because the job was complicated, or hard, or that Keith couldn’t handle the job, but because Keith kept insisting that he couldn’t handle the job. _When it is apparent that you do_ , Allura tells him everytime. _I have seen your work, Keith. You are capable of turning this place around._

 

Renovate the diner? Where will he even start? How long will it take? What if they don’t like his design? Keith wants to puke.

 

 _I’m no engineer, Allura_ , Keith had said. _I’m just a mechanic._

 

 _I just need a good, fresh eye, Keith._ Allura told him. _You’ve been here long enough to know the town, but short enough not to get bored with it. You’re perfect._

 

_But—_

He eventually ran out of buts because, as he would find out later, Allura’s a fucking law major too.

 

He walks out of the room dizzy from the offer – the job _and_ the money. He sits himself down the counter where Hunk asks him a question, probably if he wants anything to drink, to which he only nods because whatever it is – water, coffee, a bottle of vodka – he needs it before he passes out in his anxious haze.

 

“See? Keith’ll accommodate you. He’s a nice guy,” Hunk tells Lance, whom Keith hasn’t noticed still existed.

 

“Will you really, Keith?! I’ll give you my firstborn!” Lance tugs Keith’s jacket. “And—and I’ll pay rent on time, I promise!”

 

“Yeah, sure, yeah—wait, what?” Keith snaps out of his daze. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Didn’t you say you wouldn’t mind borders? Cause Lance here—”

 

“Oh, oh no, Hunk.” Keith explains. “That was a long time ago. I was a starving mechanic”

 

“You still are,” Hunk points out. “Come’on, Lance here needs a cheap place to stay. He’s on a college fund”

 

“Research grant,” Lance corrects Hunk.

 

“Yeah, that one,” Hunk says, joining Lance as he nods at Keith.

 

“Lance here? You met him like 30 minutes ago. He could be a serial killer,” Keith warns.

 

“Hey! I’m right here!”

 

“He’s my friend now!” Hunk argues. “I can vouch for him”

 

“No, Hunk,” Keith grumbles. He turns to Lance. “I’m not accepting borders right now, sorry”

 

“But,” Lance has a look on his face like he’s a kitten left in a dumpster. “What if I pay you 3 months up front right now?”

 

“No,” Keith grabs his jacket and begins to leave. “My house is a dump, anyway. It’s not the holiday home you probably came here for”

 

Lance takes a wad of cash from his hiking bag, then chases after Keith. “I’m not here for a holiday, here, take it. It’s three months’ worth but I don’t even know if I’m staying that long. It’s all yours”

 

Seeing the money, and holding it in his hands, Keith suddenly reels from a headache he didn’t notice was brewing. It looks way too much than it’s worth, Keith knows, but Keith hasn’t had this much money since he left foster care, and it’s really twisting him up right now. He could buy real liquor with this money, not the tasteless beer he’s been drinking. He could take more warm baths, instead of the chilly ones he’s been taking to save. He could probably get a haircut with this money. He could… he could leave with this money.

 

Keith really wants to puke now. First, Allura asks him to rebuild an entire diner, that people go inside and judge. Then this… Lance man… hands him thousands of dollars. Today _is_ the day. That his life gets turned around. Keith just isn’t sure if it’s for better or for worse.

 

If this is what an epiphany feels like, then Keith would like it to stop, thank you very much. He’s clenching the bills tighter than he hoped. He’s found he’s made a decision without realizing it. To both offers.

 

“ _I_ could be a serial killer,” Keith mumbles, trying to resist a little more.

 

Lance smirks that Keith is considering at all. “Nah. My friend Hunk there vouched for you.”

 

Keith wants to reiterate his point. That all of them had met each other 30 minutes ago, and that’s far too small a space for trust to fit, but he shoves the cash into his jacket pocket, and grabs Lance’s hiking bag off the counter.

 

“’Kay then, that your car outside? We better get going,” Keith says. “I need to get some sleep.”

 

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Lance mentions, but Keith just keeps talking.

 

“I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m renovating this place.”

 

Lance leaves with a “Bye, Hunk!” and Keith drunk on the uncertainty of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NORTH DAIBA AS IN DAIBAZAAL GET IT)
> 
> hope you like this so far, tell me your thoughts on twitter @emperor_lotor
> 
> P.S. i am a college student. give me at least a week to update!!!


	2. Lance

_“Come on and listen to what I say_

_I've got some secrets that'll make you stay”_

_The Strokes, Barely Legal_

 

* * *

 

Yesterday, Keith slept on a low, hard mattress, wrapped in a thick blanket because the heater isn’t stronger than the ocean breeze at night. He dreamt of this house when he got it. Abandoned container vans put side by side to make a sort-of home by the side of the ocean. Half rust by then, and rotting away. It took a day for him to clean the whole place up, and he slept with his mattress on the floor the first night, huddling close to the portable heater he bought at the gas station on his way to town. The next morning, he scavenges wood and metal from the junkyard at the edge of town, and builds himself a patio. Soon enough, some stray cats will find it and squat at Keith’s place everytime he’s gone, leaving shit and loose cat hair as thanks, but Keith doesn’t know this yet right now.

 

The rest of the dream is spent with Keith sat in there, watching the ocean until the sun set.

 

* * *

 

Today, Keith sits Lance down on the couch while he sorts out Lance’s room. “I’ve turned it into a workshop without noticing,” Keith explains. He does a lot of things without noticing. It’s probably his most consistent trait.

 

“Like, for carpenter stuff?” Lance thinks out loud, trying to find a channel on the TV that isn’t just static. “Carpenting?”

 

“Carpenting isn’t a word, Lance, but yes,” Keith says from the other room while he gathers boxes of screws and other assorted metal from Lance’s to his room, which was right across the hall.

 

The hallways is small so that it could fit two people but have them dangerously invade each other’s personal space. But the compromise is worth it, Keith thought before and Lance thinks now, because the bedrooms are bigger than expected from a house made of container vans.

 

“Looks pretty cozy,” Lance says, taking a peek at the room he’ll be staying at. There’s a single big window beside the bed, where the ocean can be seen. Keith’s tools are hung up on the wall properly arranged, and there are boxes everywhere properly labeled and arranged in size. “You don’t have to take the ones you put up the wall. I like the aesthetic.”

 

“Um, okay. But I might have to bother you every now and then to get them.”

 

“No, it’s okay,” Lance replies. He’s got a look on his eyes while he’s looking at the space, something that looks a lot like when Keith first came to North Daiba. A slight glimmer. Something like excitement. “I like it. It’s inspiring”

 

Keith didn’t know what that meant, but it took a lot of work off his hands, this way he didn’t have to arrange everything in boxes and re-label them. When he’s done transferring the boxes of tools he stored in the room, he grabs a couple of thick, blue blankets from his wardrobe, and tosses it to Lance, who’s sat himself on the bed, facing the ocean.

 

“This okay?” Keith asks.

 

“Yeah,” Lance says, eye on the horizon like if he blinked it would disappear. “It’s perfect.”

 

* * *

 

An incessant knocking. “Keith, Keith!”

 

Keith throws one of his pillows over his head. “What _now_ , Lance?!” He shouts.

 

“Come on out!”

 

“Why!”

 

“Just do!”

 

“Ugh!” Keith throws the pillow at his wall and bolts up, stomping to the door. He’s ready to kill this man and he’s only been here for 3 hours.

 

Lance is an annoying tenant, nay, the _most_ annoying tenant, out of the _entire_ population of the world’s tenants for at least the past 10 years. Keith’s been trying to take a nap five times now (with the consequence of _death_ ), and _Every. Goddamn. Time._ A Lance-faced _insect_ pops up in his dreams to wake him up.

 

First it’s a bathroom question, which is understandable. Then it’s to ask for towels, which is, again, logical and reasonable. But then it’s “Keith, what do you say is the best place to get cake in town?”, then “Keith, if, say, someone had, or well, _would_ set my Chevy on fire, not the whole thing, just like, mostly the interior… for _example_ , would you be able to fix it?” which was just confusing and only got Lance a door slamming in his face, and then, now—

 

“Is this cat yours?!” Surely enough, there’s Lance frowning disapprovingly, with a half-grown kitten in his hands all wrapped in a face towel.

 

Keith is… just confused. “What? Where… Why—put that down!” He tries to pry the poor thing off Lance, but he pushes back, hitting the narrow hallway with his back. Lance runs to the living room.

 

“Don’t hurt it!” Lance shouts.

 

“ _Me_ hurt it? Whose cat is that? Did you _steal it_?” _Great._ Keith thinks. _Just great._ He let a catnapping freak stay in his house.

 

“It was outside! On the patio!” Lance defends himself, patting the cat’s black fur. “I thought it was yours and honestly I was this close reporting you to animal welfare”

 

Keith’s stood frozen on his living room, _completely_ and _utterly_ _clueless_ how his life took this turn. Why he’s here right now… Why he’s in this situation… What he’s done to whatever gods there are up there to deserve this… “What the fuck, Lance?” was all he could say.

 

“It was mewling from the cold, I had to take it in,” Lance explains, a pout forming on his lips.

 

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Keith says firmly. “This is a no-pets-allowed apartment”

 

“But, Keith!”

 

“If you wanna keep the cat, then fucking, I don’t know, build it a house outside or something. I am _going_ to take a _nap_. If you disturb me one more _fucking time_ ,” he pauses, glaring at Lance. “I’ll kill you.”

 

Keith stomps grumpily into his bedroom and slams the door.

 

Lance pouts for real now and looks down at the cat he’s cradling in his arms like a baby. “Me, Lance,” he tells it. “Evil grumpy man?” Lance says, making ugly faces. “Keith”

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up from his nap at around nine P.M., the chilly evening breeze giving him goosebumps. It’s silent for about five seconds, just the ocean and the breeze making sounds. Tranquil, until Keith hears a loud thud outside, and Lance exclaiming, “Ouch, fuck!”

 

He sighs, then steps outside.

 

“Lance, what the fuck are you doing now—” Keith snorts when he sees it. Cardboard boxes painted over blue, and old fabrics. Wobbling along with the breeze with the structural integrity of water. “Is that—did you spend this whole hour making this cat a house?” He laughs. “It’s so ugly!”

 

Lance bolts up and takes the cat to his chest again. “Yeah, well at least I care about Blue!”

 

“Oh, good, you named it, _let it go, Lance_ ,” Keith tells him sharply. “It’s a stray cat! It’s not meant to be domesticated”

 

“It’s a stray cat, _Keith,_ it _has_ to be domesticated,” Lance glares at him.

 

They glare at each other for a while.

 

“Do whatever you want. But you can’t bring it inside, you hear me?”

 

“Boo-hoo, you whore. Like it wants to go into your stinky home,” Lance says like a kindergartener teasing his playmates.

 

Keith rolls his eyes, and goes back in. Lance grumbles to Blue about evil grumpy Keith, mocking him while Lance paints designs over its cardboard home.

 

When Keith stomps back out, holding thick pieces of wood and coming toward Lance, he screams and puts his hands over his head. “Ah! He’s gonna eat me!”

 

Keith slams the pieces of ply wood beside him. “Cardboard can’t fight off the cold, you dumbass”

 

Lance sticks his tongue at him. But when Keith’s back inside, Lance beams at Blue, and shows her the ply wood. “Look! For your home!”

 

Keith eats his dinner facing the patio door.

 

* * *

 

Later that night Lance sits himself down on his bed in front of the wide window he’s opened. Cool ocean breeze pricking his face and making his hair fly in all directions.

 

He’s thinking about baggage when he opens his hiking bag. It’s not clothes that overflow, but liquor, in 7/11 plastic bags. A whole bunch of them. Walker. Bacardi. In those half-sized bottles that fit around eight shots.

 

Lance was not a light packer. He always took everything with. Toothbrush, extra toothbrush, swimming goggles, sunblock, eye drops, booze. He finds his iPhone shoved into a side pocket and he takes it out. He gestures to turn it on, but, hand over the button, decides against it. He was not a light packer. He always took everything with. Even the things he knew he didn’t need. Even the things he knew he had to get rid of. He shoves the phone inside a drawer on the nightstand.

 

He takes a bottle out.

 

There’s a burner phone he bought in Altea before he left, because in the middle of it all, in the middle of the staying and the going, in a sudden, quick moment of rationality, Lance realized he didn’t want his face plastered everywhere like a missing cat. Not unless he could pick the photo they put up himself. Guy takes a lot of bad selfies after all.

 

He dials his mother’s number. He opens the vodka he fished out, and drinks directly from the bottle, squinting only a little.

 

“Hello? Who is this?! You are not in my phone book—” The sharp voice of his mother spoke. He sees their ancestral home, the yellow walls and the black and white photos of two grandfathers ago. His mom on her brown rocking chair in front of the technicolor TV, half attentive, half distracted by her telenovela.

 

“Ma, it’s me, Lance,” he tells her calmly.

 

“Lance! _Hijo!_ Why have you called so late?! Whose phone is this?!”

 

“Uh, my phone broke, ma.” He gulps down a few more ounces of vodka. “I had to take it to the shop. Might take a while to get it fixed.”

 

“Ah, _bueno_ , I call you here from now on?”

 

“Yes, ma”

 

“Are you at home?”

 

“Um, yes, I am, ma”

 

“Are you taking care of yourself? Of your health? Remember to drink a lot of water, hm? And sleep. Don’t tire your eyes out. Dear God, take care of my son’s beautiful eyes—”

 

“Yes, yes, mama. Don’t worry. I’m doing—” he pauses. “—all of that.” Lance bites his lip. “Anyway, ma, I’m, uh, I have to go now. I have a 7:30 class tomorrow.”

 

“Alright then, _hijo_. You behave there in Altea, okay? Grandma is constantly praying for you”

 

Then his mother stars screaming at his brothers and sister. “Marco, Luis, Veronica! Your brother is on the phone!”

 

Lance sees Marco, probably wearing one of those godforsaken snapbacks he bought in Altea when he came to visit Lance at the university. Luis, who Lance hopes gets a haircut by the next time he checks Facebook, if he still ever could. Veronica, who was beautiful but didn’t believe it so Lance makes it a point to keep reminding her, despite his dwindling credibility.

 

The three speak over each other, both shouting endearing comments and teasing at the same time. Lance chuckles. Tells them all to take care. Then, they say goodbye.

 

He puts himself to sleep with a bottle of vodka.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up early. Like, _really early_. Lance isn’t sure what time is it exactly, but there was _no sun_ yet visible so Lance _knows_ it’s an absolutely _unholy_ hour. And Keith is up. Like a _freak._

 

And Lance, like the normal person, albeit light sleeper, that he is, is startled by the honest-to-God _grunting_ that he hears on the patio that day. Lance realizes he forgot to close the windows last night when he notices the goosebumps all over his body beneath his blue blankets.

 

 _What the fuck is Keith doing so goddamn early?_ Lance sits up, but is reeled back into the mattress by the vodka in his brain. He pries himself off the bed slowly, then walks up to the window for two reasons: (1) to close it so it’s not so cold, and (2) to heckle the heck out of _this loud disrespectful bitch Keith_ , Lance thinks. Primarily number 2.

 

With his vision adjusting to the dark and the alcohol, Lance sees Keith on the patio. Hair sticking to his forehead. Sweat trickling down his face. Kicking and punching what appears to be… nothing. Air. Blue is sat in his house watching Keith too, probably as weirded out by the whole situation as Lance.

 

“Keith—?” Lance asks out of confusion.

 

“What?” Keith is startled by the noise, then he sees Lance behind his window, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. “Lance? Why the fuck are you up?” Keith asks, like Lance was the weird one, really, in this situation, the bitch had the nerve to say that.

 

“Why the fuck are _you_ up?!” Lance raises his voice and regrets it when his vodka-made brain jumbles up the vibrations in his skull. “What time even is it?”

 

Keith shrugs. “2AM, I guess”

 

“TWO A.M.?!” Lance shouts, and _really_ regrets it this time, when the impact of the decibels bouncing off his brain causes him to wobble a few steps back. “Two in the fucking morning,” Lance whispers, horrified.

 

“No one asked you to wake up,” Keith barks at him.

 

Lance wants to shout at him again, but stops himself due to the perilous consequences. “ _You_ waked me up. With all your—” Lance moves his hands around in front of him in a random pattern. “—kicking and grunting”

 

“It’s called kickboxing, idiot. It’s not my fault you didn’t close your window last night”

 

“ _Why_ ,” Lance wails. “What self-respecting person _kickboxes_ at _two in the morning_?”

 

Keith ignores his remark, and gets back to punching air. “Close your window and go to sleep, Lance.”

 

Lance, who was by this point mortified of Keith’s… personhood in general, finds it counterproductive to resist. He closes his window and goes back to bed.

 

On the patio, Keith kicks. Breathe in, breathe out, but he remains breathless somehow. A black hole of thoughts and made-up scenarios sucking him from the inside.

 

* * *

 

Lance tries to drown it out. But Keith’s grunting becomes Lance’s tinnitus somehow. Even with the window closed. Even if he technically can’t hear it anymore, he does. His hearing, after all, had always been Lance’s most trusted sense. And for good reason, what with his condition and everything.

 

His ears catch a faint thud, and Keith saying something like “Fuck” or “Duck”, most probably “Fuck”, if it were up to Lance ( _Keith’s a nasty man_ , he thinks _)_. Intrigued, Lance opens his window and pops his head out.

 

“Keith? What weird shit are you doing now— _Jesus_ , are you bleeding?!”

Keith is stood in front of the blocks of wood holding up the patio, panting, his bandaged hand dripping blood. Lance discards his blanket and rushes out the patio door, half regretting his decision when the sharp ocean wind bites his skin.

 

“I’m fine,” Keith says immediately.

 

“ _Fine?_ ” Lance exclaims. “No offense, dude, but your hand is bleeding.”

 

Keith ignores him.

 

“Did you punch it into a wall?” Lance babbles on like a mom. “Wasn’t it, like, injured to begin with? What did Hunk say—a welding incident? Keith? Did you drive your welding-burnt hand into a wall? Who _are you?_ ”

 

“I said I’m _fine_ , Lance,” Keith repeats, and walks into the door.

 

Lance follows him inside. Wondering now if this cheap place to stay a while is really worth it. Maybe Keith was a serial killer after all. Keith opens the kitchen cupboard, surprisingly calm while his hand literally bleeds off of his wrist. Lance watches him dig through a box for something, then shove it back into the cupboard, then take another box out, then sighing defeatedly.

 

“Did you—did you run out of bandages or something?” Lance asks softly.

 

Keith sighs. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it tomorrow”

 

“Yeah, no,” Lance says, taking a quick trip to his bedroom for a shirt and his jacket. “Where’s the nearest 7/11?”

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“Getting you bandages and running away from you because you’re scary”

 

“I said you don’t have to—”

 

“Come on, man. You’re still fucking bleeding. Just. Come with me if your want. And apply pressure on that wound or something. It is _freaking_ me out.”

 

Keith for once doesn’t argue. He removes the old bandage and throws it to the trash. He grabs the cloth by the dishwasher which was supposed to be for drying the dishes, but probably not anymore since now it’s all covered in Keith’s blood.

 

Lance, in that span of time, had gotten dressed in the kitchen. He dangles his car keys around his pointer finger, and nods at Keith. “Let’s go?”

 

Keith nods back. “Sure”

 

Lance’s car is an old Chevy Impala (the ones with the foldable roof for maximum chick magnet capacity) with unexplainable burn marks around the edges. Keith doesn’t ask about it when he first sees it, mostly because he had been nauseous from Allura’s offer, but now he remembers one of Lance’s annoying questions while he was trying to nap. He squints at the suspicious beach blankets that were laid out over the leather seats.

 

“Who burned your car?” Keith asked, but Lance recoils.

 

“Nope. You can’t bring that up right now. You literally made your hand bleed. My burnt car is the less weird phenomenon”

 

Keith scoffs, but keeps silent. His injured hand over the other. It’s the hurt that lets him breathe.

 

“Where’s the nearest 7/11?”

 

“Just drive straight,” Keith says. “I’ll guide you.”

 

* * *

 

When Keith’s all patched up, they sit in Lance’s car in front of the empty beach up ahead. Lance argues that the best painkiller is beer, and Keith honestly had nothing against that for once. He tells Lance to get a six pack, to which Lance replies, “Already got it, Keith” while hitting his torso before running off to actually get six cans of beer for them.

 

Keith waits for him quietly, cozy on the mismatched beach blankets over the burnt Chevy’s seats. Moon and clouds above. Ocean up ahead. Wind all around.

 

And they sit there. Their first proper chat.

 

“What’s up with you anyway?” Lance asks first. “Did I piss you off that much? Are you kicking me out?”

 

Keith chuckles. “You wish, man.” And Keith wishes the sources of his anger were so petty. He drinks. “I’m just bad at managing my emotions, is all”

 

Lance only nods.

 

“So, who burned your car?” Keith finally gets to ask.

 

Lance drinks. “I did.”

 

Keith coughs half-gulp. “What? Why in the world…?”

 

Lance doesn’t answer for a while, just looks at the ocean in the dark. He sees a piece of paper he’s holding up, then the door he bolts out of, then the ignition, then the tiny bottle of booze, then a beach, then a light…

 

“Guess I’m also bad at managing my emotions,” Lance tells him.

 

Keith nods to that. “Cheers”

 

“Cheers”

 

* * *

 

“But what’s been boggling you at two in the morning?”

 

Keith didn’t know where to start. What if Allura doesn’t like his design? What if he loses his shit and murders everyone like a horror movie? What if everyone murders _him_ for being bad at redesigning their favorite diner and losing his shit? What if he leaves North Daiba the same person he was when he came?

 

In the end, he goes with, “I got a job I’m not sure I could handle”

 

Lance says, “I don’t know. You seem tough enough for me”

 

They drink.

 

“Thanks, Lance”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Keith makes breakfast for Lance to make up for everything, but he’s surprised to see the brown-haired boy at the diner counter when he comes in, devouring something that Hunk cooked up for him.

 

Keith sits beside him, unamused. “Didn’t you read my sticky note?”

 

The sticky note had said, “Sorry bout last night. Here’s breakfast”

 

Lance stops to swallow. He puts one hand on Keith’s shoulder. “How do I put this out for you, buddy, um, Hunk texted to hang out at a diner which has waffles and french toast and good coffee… and you, my friend...” Lance puts his other hand on Keith’s other shoulder. “You burnt the toast. Who does that?”

 

Keith ears turn red from embarrassment. “Yeah, well I’d like to see you make breakfast yourself. See if you’re any better,” he says defensively, not really thinking much about what he just said.

 

Lance gives him a smug look. “Bitch, challenge accepted. I’ll show you a real breakfast _a la Lance_ ”

 

Keith rolls his eyes and heads off to Allura’s office, still flushed at the situation. Damn it, he thought they had a bonding moment?

 

 _People suck._ Keith thinks. _And Lance is the suckiest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u liked that, tell me whatcha think and um i got exams so gimme legit a week this time. talk more @emperor_lotor on twitter byee


	3. The Castle of Lions

_"Won't you be my friend,_

_won't you be my friend for now?"_

_Bad Suns, Outskirts of Paradise_

 

* * *

 

Three days into Keith’s diner renovation job, he has quit in frustration for a grand total of four times, and Allura has rejected his resignation for a grand total of five.

 

“I _can’t_! I’m not—this isn’t for me, Allura,” Keith says, hands flying around in frantic gestures.

 

Allura sits unfazed across her office table. “Keith,” she says, firm and sharp. “You are the best person for this job.”

 

Keith takes in a sharp inhale. “No! Why?! I—” he grabs the designs he’s drawn up and flashes it in front of her. “Look at this! They’re awful! You said so yourself!” He’s clenching his hand around the paper almost enough for it to rip apart.

 

“Yes,” Allura says calmly. “Because you are capable of much more than this.”

 

At that, Keith huffs, and rips the designs in front of her. Allura’s demeanor does not change. When Keith flops down on the chair in front of her, she lets Keith breathe. _He is just like him_ , Allura thinks, remembering how her godfather used to behave when she was a kid.

 

It takes over a minute for Keith to regain his breathing. Once his mind clears and his vision is no longer red, he looks at Allura, who has proceeded to do paperwork in the middle of that debacle, as if Keith didn’t just literally lose his shit in front of her.

 

Keith sits staring at her for a while, unsure really of how to proceed. Usually, this is where he gets fired. It’s a miracle he even got to finish his outburst at all. Usually, he had been fired three outbursts ago. But Allura… like a crazy lady, she has convinced herself somehow that Keith had some kind of ability which he didn’t. She had hope for him, so much that you can see it spilling through her eyes, and flush out of them when he gives her a bad design. She _believed in him_. It made Keith mad.

 

Keith didn’t like disappointment, because there was a quota for how many times you can disappoint a person before they decide they’re done with you. Allura has flung herself blindly into the face of disappointment by even trusting him. Whatever she expected of Keith, it wasn’t, no matter how hard he tried, something he could give. That’s the one thing that foster care taught him.

 

“I’m not,” Keith mumbles. Allura puts her pen down.

 

“You’re not?” she inquires.

 

“I’m not…” Keith tells her. “I’m not capable of much more. Or, _more_ to begin with.”

 

“Keith—”

 

“Look,” he interrupts. “Whoever you’ve convinced yourself I am… However great that person is… He’s not me, Allura.” _I’m just Keith_ , he thinks. A bunch of homes ago, he would have beat himself up for it. For not being _that_ Keith. That sporty one, that smart one, that sensitive one, that Keith this mom wanted, and that dad wanted, and that pastor wanted. He would have tried to be some other Keith. He would’ve been _the_ Keith.

 

But he’s out of foster care now, and finally he could be _just_ Keith. Unfortunately, just Keith wasn’t worth much, but it’s the Keith he’s comfortable of being.

 

Allura gets up and wordlessly yanks Keith from the chair he’s sitting on. Keith thinks, _okay, well I’m fired._ She drags him out her office, and through the counter where Hunk and Lance were chatting animatedly, barely even noticing the two rush past through the front door with a clinking of bells. Keith thinks, _okay, am I banned?_

 

Wordlessly, she drags him all the way across the road and pins him there with both hands on his shoulders. “Look at it, Keith,” she finally speaks.

 

“I don’t— Am I— Are you firing me?”

 

Allura clasps his jaw with one hand and directs it to the diner. “I said look. What do you see?”

 

 _The Castle of Lions_ , he thinks. Though, in neon, the sign reads “The Cast of Lions” now that the light behind the “ _le_ ” has stopped working.

_It looks like a lunchbox_ , Keith thinks, but that’s not an observation he hasn’t made before.

 

He hadn’t realized it until he got the job but somehow he had familiarized himself with every nook and cranny in this place. The white paint peeling out from the wood boards. The grime at the edge of the windows. The fading paint in the parking lot.

 

And inside, the squeaking of the door you can only hear above the bells if you really pay attention.

 

Hunk behind the counter, with bottles of mustard and ketchup.

 

Coran in the kitchen, and the pristine cupboards.

 

Lance. On the round seats, blue and red and squeaky. Some with gum on the side.

 

The three waitresses with voices as squeaky as mice, walking all over the orange and white tiles, some moving from the force of their stride.

 

And the chairs, all in red. The empty chairs.

 

Keith knows the place enough by now, and Allura knows that, so Keith isn’t really sure what answer she’s hoping for when she said “ _What do you see?”_

 

“I don’t understand,” he tells her honestly.

 

Allura breathes, poise breaking. Expression going soft. Some glint in her eyes Keith can’t quite name. She wraps her arms around herself, and (contrary to what Keith expected next to be screaming) she chuckles. “I mean, look at it. Doesn’t it look like a lunchbox?”

 

“I, yeah,” Keith isn’t sure if it was appropriate to smile right now but he takes the risk. “It does.”

 

They share a laugh.

 

“This is home to me, Keith.” The smell of her mom’s cooking. The best bacon and eggs in town. The sound of her dad’s drunken singing by the jukebox. How after her mother died, the eggs never tasted the same. How after her father died, the jukebox broke too. How the universe couldn’t just take one. How it’s always all or nothing. Like how it is now. “Before we moved to Altea, this was all we had.”

 

“You used to live here?” Keith asked.

 

“Yes. Until I was 19. That small office of mine was our bedroom.”

 

Keith’s gaze is focused on the diner. He’s never had one home for that long before. Maybe that’s why he never could figure it out. How to fix the diner. He never knew what home was like.

 

He asks her, “What was it like?”

 

Allura tells him.

 

* * *

 

Allura tells Keith about her dad. Idealistic but financially struggling Alfor who sold his house to buy some run-down diner that was closing down because “ _it was home_ ”. She tells him about how stupid it was that instead of “No, Alfor, _our house_ is home”, her mother had said, “Okay, but we take turns cooking.”

 

Then, she tells Keith about the day she realized what her dad really meant by “ _It was home._ ”

 

“Apparently, they met here – my mom and dad.” She tells Keith about how it was an old high school hangout where people promised to meet after 30 or so years to catch up, and how her mom had said ‘ _What if they do come back and it’s not here anymore? We can’t let that happen.’_

 

“Doesn’t make it a less crazy decision though, but yeah,” Allura says.

 

“Is that—” Keith hesitates.

 

“Is it what?”

 

“Is that what home feels like? Something to come back to?”

 

Allura says yes. “What does it feel like for you?”

 

Keith looks at his feet. “I’ve, um, I’ve never had one, I mean, not for that long, I’m, uh, adopted, so, I don’t think I can design a home for you, Allura.”

 

A cold breeze passes by.

 

“But you do have a home, Keith,” Allura puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s that lunch box right up front”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She breathes. “The day my father died, you came to the diner. It was probably your first day in town.”

 

Keith remembers that day. Just like Lance, he rushed in with a big bag and an empty stomach. Though, he was less annoying about it.

 

Allura shifts her weight from foot to foot, an unlikely behavior for a woman who literally studied about good posture, being a _princess_ and everything.

 

“I was about to close the place for good the next day,” she tells him, guilty. “But you came back.  I thought about everyone who wanted to come back too. Who wanted to come home. I didn’t close it. Because what if you came back again and it’s not here anymore? I can’t let that happen.”

 

She gives his back a pat, and starts heading back, leaving Keith frozen on the sidewalk.

 

* * *

 

An epiphany feels like the opposite of anger. A rush. A thrill. But euphoric. His mind reels, but doesn’t tangle up. His whole body shakes from the thought of the future, but in a good way. An epiphany feels like adrenalin, but not for punching, but for doing. He couldn’t wait to get started on the design. He couldn’t wait to fix this goddamn lunchbox of a place. He couldn’t wait to come home. To know what it feels like.

 

He didn’t know where to start, but for once in his life, he had an ending. His brain is picture over picture of things he wants to do. In the jumble of it all, while he’s frozen solid on the ground just imagining in light speed, Lance pushes the diner door open, and Keith’s eyes magnetize to his form, gaze following the brown-haired boy to his car.

 

Lance would know about homes. Where to start. How to make one. He made one for the kitty cat in Keith’s patio. It was awful but it was a place to stay, a place to come home to. Lance would know. Lance would help him make a home.

 

“Lance!” Keith shouts at him, a little louder than expected.

 

Lance jumps at the sound and his head turns rapidly towards Keith’s direction. “Keith!” He shouts back, just to spite him, but Keith doesn’t frown or growl or make any snarky remarks. Keith walks up to him, smiling, weirdly… excited about something… not even looking left and right before crossing the road to get to where he was.

 

“What’s gotten into y—”

 

“Are you busy today?” Keith’s still smiling and Lance is slowly starting to get scared from this odd behavior.

 

“Um, no? I’m, uh, I don’t think so, I’m going to the beach—”

 

“Can I come with you?!”

 

Lance is really freaked out now. Keith _actually_ asking to go to the beach with him. It’s a new level of weird. Why isn’t he, like, doing Keith things like, sulking and complaining about the cats? Is Keith sick? Is he on drugs? Wild thoughts run across Lance’s head.

 

“Um, sure, I don’t see why n—”

 

“Alright, come on,” Keith jumps into the car’s burnt interior, flopping onto the beach blankets Lance has laid above the seats, not even a glint of judgement in his eyes. “What are you waiting for, buddy?”

 

 _Buddy_. Lance is legit confused now, but when he gets into the car with this new version of Keith which is probably a clone, he smiles. Keith is kinda cute when he’s like this.

 

* * *

 

They’re driving to a sea cave that Hunk says is the best place to “chill with the ladies” ( _if you know what I’m saying_ , he added with a raise of eyebrows), but on their way, Keith asks Lance to turn around.

 

“What?” Lance whines. “No, bring clone Keith back!”

 

Keith, confused at the remark only says, “Just. Go back to the apartment, Lance. I’ve got a better idea.”

 

Lance frowns. He was enjoying clone Keith’s company. Clone Keith who looked like a dog on his first car ride. Mullet swishing around in the wind as they drove. Silent but not giving off murder vibes as per usual. A peaceful, beautiful, clone Keith.

 

But now real Keith is back, being a killjoy as usual.

 

* * *

 

Lance was wrong. Oh, so wrong. He lets out an actual, kid-getting-a-present-on-his-birthday gasp when Keith shows it to him. The sleek black piece of metal with red accents on the side. Dusty, but the noon sunlight reflects on its anyway. An actual, hopefully functioning, motorbike.

 

“You have a fucking motorbike?!” He exclaims. Clone Keith was _cool._

 

“I was starting to forget, too,” Keith tells him while he polishes the bike down until it was in a pristine shape again. “I hadn’t used it since I got to town. I liked the long walks and the commute.”

 

“When did you arrive to town? It looks like it’s been abandoned for years,” Lance remarks.

 

Keith takes a while to answer. “Yeah, I’ve been, uh, stuck here for some time. But I’m getting back on my feet.” He smiles. This time he really was.

 

The engine revs and Lance gets goosebumps. He remembers every request he’s ever made to his mom about getting a motorbike, nearly every year since he was 10 he asks for it for Christmas without fail. And now. Dear God, now. He’s finally getting to ride on a goddamn motorbike.

 

His blood rushes through his body in a wave of adrenalin. _“Hijo, it’s too dangerous,”_ his mom’s voice in his head, a reflex now more than anything else.

 

“Good, the engine’s fine,” Keith mumbles.

 

Lance brushes the thought away.

 

He’s nearly jumping from the thought of getting on that bike, but Keith says he needs just one more thing and gets inside the house. He doesn’t come out for a while (like 2 minutes) so Lance, getting impatient, follows him in.

 

By the time he gets to the door, Keith is stepping out. Lance finds himself frozen where he stood, mouth slightly open. What Lance thought was Keith looking for some engine lube or something, was actually… Keith fetching some fingerless gloves. The veins in Keith’s hand show through the hole on the forehand. His fingers lean and fluid.

 

When Keith notices Lance staring, he stops in his tracks. “What? What’s wrong?” Keith examines his whole body, looking for anything embarrassing that Lance would start laughing at in a while.

 

Lance compels himself to calm down from the shock. He coughs. “Nothing, um, you took so long, um, let’s go the beach, man.” Lance wasn’t sure why he used such a low voice (and why he said ‘man’), and why the side of his ears felt warmer than usual.

 

* * *

 

The wind bites Lance’s skin. Keith drives in a reckless manner. Barely slowing down on bumpy spots. Not avoiding the holes in the concrete. Not caring for safety much, as it seems. Lance gets high on the thrill. The entire time, he’s got his hands around Keith’s waist, and screaming “Keith! We’re gonna fucking die!” and “Holy Mother of Christ!” and laughing. Keith’s laughter chimes along and together they dissipate in the breeze.

 

“Calm down, idiot,” Keith tells him, but Lance doesn’t listen. He screams to the top of his lungs. He’s riding a motor bike on a highway, and the drive is uphill. Trees on one side. Ocean in the other. The sky spread out endlessly above them.

 

 _It looks beautiful_ , Lance thinks.

 

They approach a tunnel and Lance watches as the ocean and the trees and the sky disappear. A quick beat of his heart. He doesn’t notice his grip tightening around Keith’s waist. A panicked reflex.

 

Keith laughs. “What? You afraid of the dark or something?”

 

Lance doesn’t answer. He’s got his eyes snapped shut, focused on making out what’s beyond them. He hears the ocean, waves over another. And the breeze, too. All around them. The rustling of leaves, though hard to make out over the sound of the engine beneath him. Keith in front of him, warm. The motorbike below, shaking. Lance turns his hands into fists. _They’re still there, Lance. They haven’t gone away._ _They’re still there._

 

He tries to force his eyes closed, but he couldn’t. He snaps them back open. The tunnel is dark, and Lance’s heart races. _No, it’s okay. It’s still there, Lance. The light, it still is._

 

When they pass by the tunnel, Lance is showered with not just sunlight, but a wave of relief. He turns his head to the trees, and the ocean, and the sky. They are still there. Keith is still there. The motorbike. And himself. Still there. His hands unclench. He hasn’t realized he’s been holding his breath until he’s breathing again.

 

“Yo, Lance, you okay there?” Keith asks, snapping him back into reality.

 

Lance coughs a bit, jarred slightly from the experience. “Yeah. Just. Afraid of the dark.”

 

Keith laughs. Lance tries to laugh along.

 

* * *

 

Hunk doesn't tell Coran or Allura about it, but he's been sneaking food to the yellow-eyed cat that's been hanging around the kitchen lately.

 

Like a ninja, he puts leftover food in a plastic bag, pretends to take it to the trash, then feeds the cat there.

 

At first, the cat had been hesitant to eat in front of him, only doing so once he's left. But lately, when he gets there, the cat's already waiting for him. Hunk revels in the sense of fulfillment every time that happens. When a stray begins to trust you. He’s addicted to the feeling.

 

This time, it was leftovers from Lance's breakfast that he's sneakily gathering for the cat. But Hunk is interrupted by a rhythmic thudding from the other side of the counter.

 

Hunk narrows his eyes and goes around the counter to see a keypad phone vibrating furiously on the ground.

 

Must be Lance's, Hunk thinks because frankly not a lot of people visit the diner anymore and as far as he was concerned, Lance had been the only one to sit by the counter since they opened. Weird that Lance owns a keypad phone, but Hunk doesn't want to judge. He’s not that kind of person. Hunk slips it into his apron pocket to return tomorrow.

 

"Coran, I'm just gonna throw out the trash," He says and chuckles to himself, feeling pretty cleaver. It’s basically code for _I’m going to domesticate the strays that you’ve been trying to push away, boss. Yolo._

He sneaks out the kitchen door with the leftovers in a plastic bag and Lance's keypad phone in his apron pocket. Hunk's not the type to answer other people's calls, despite the constant vibrations it makes above his chest.

 

"Oh? Someone's been waiting for me?" Hunk tells the cat which was propped up on top of the trash bin, immediately crawling down once he arrives.

 

The phone stops vibrating in his pocket for probably two seconds, then starts on again. The vibrating alarms the cat, and Hunk explains, "Oh, no, no, it's okay," and lays down its food on the asphalt.

 

It approaches with caution as Hunk's apron continues to get shaken by the cellphone. Hunk says, "Come on, it's alright, buddy"

 

But when the cat turns to leave, he concedes. "Alright, alright, okay, I'll answer it," He takes the phone from his apron pocket and gets up.

 

It's an unknown number.

 

"Must be important if they won't stop calling," Hunk thinks before hitting the Accept button on the keypad.

 

"Maybe it's a research emergency," he contemplates.

 

But the person on the other line doesn't sound like a welcoming colleague at all.

 

"Did _you think_ I wasn't gonna find out, Lance? Did you think so _lowly_ of me? I knew you'd call your mom and now I've found you and this game is _over_ ," exclaimed the voice.

 

"Um, hi, sorry. This is Hunk," he explains. "Lance left his phone in our diner. I didn't mean to answer this call, it just, seemed like an emergency so--"

 

Behind him, the stray had started purring while devouring the feat of leftovers Hunk brought over. He smiles at the scene.

 

"What? Who--" The voice asks. "Where's Lance?"

 

"Um, down the beach," Hunk replies. "Is this a research emergency?"

 

"What? No, no, It's— _North Daiba_? How the fuck did the idiot find a place so close to nowhere—"

 

"Sorry?" Hunk inquires.

 

"Sorry? _Oh_ , right. Hunk. Hi. I'm Pidge. Lance's friend," Pidge pauses. "Roommate," and pauses again. "Classmate. Whatever. How long have you been acquainted with my not so good friend Lance, Hunk?"

 

"Um," Hunk thinks, but is distracted by the stray which is rubbing its fur across his cargo pants. Hunk makes silly faces at it before replying, "Few days ago, when he came to town."

 

"Okay, okay, I see. Are you aware of the true nature of his visit?"

 

Hunk pauses to think. "Like research? _Oh_ , is it a super secret research? Am I not supposed to know? _Damn_ , I knew Lance was too cool to be a legal researcher "

 

"Okay, so the answer is no," Pidge says, then the rest of the sentence registers in her brain. _Oh this man thinks Lance is cool?_ She thinks. _Classic altruist._ As much as Lance hates it, he attracts these kind of people. It’s sad, really, now that Pidge thinks about it.

 

"Say, Hunk, are you good friends with Lance by now?" She tries to hide the ulterior motives leaking out through her tone.

 

"Hm," Hunk thinks. "I guess so, we're pretty close given the time to personal information I know about him ratio."

 

Pidge pushes it. She’s wild like that. "Would you say you, hm, _care_ for him?"

 

_Only real altruists will ever…_

 

“Oh, yeah, to an extent, sure.”

 

_That._

The yellow-eyed cat purrs beside Hunk, the living, breathing, embodiment of how he cares arguably _too quickly_ about so many things. The adorable explanation of how, naturally, a funny man like Lance had ended up on the list pretty quickly as well.

 

"Okay then. Hunk. It's time you know the real nature of Lance's visit. I've grown tired of playing this game, and I think it's time to try a new approach."

 

* * *

 

Pidge tells him everything, and by the end, Hunk is determined to take in another stray. But he only means that metaphorically.

 

In Lance's case, Hunk doesn't plan on taking him in at all.

 

 _Lance needs to leave North Daiba_ , he thinks. _And soon._

 

* * *

 

The seacave is small and wet. Keith walks over damp rocks carefully, Lance following suit.

 

"Careful with your head," Keith tells him. He's got one arm extended all the way to the top of the cave, as if to hold it down. Lance tries his best to imitate Keith's evasive head movements to avoid hitting the rocky ceiling, but he’s at the same time keen on imprinting every detail of the cave in his mind.

 

"Oh, fu--" Lance slips.

 

Keith's gloved palm greets him when he regains balance. "Here, take my hand"

 

The gloves are cold, but Keith's fingers, warmer. "Thanks," Lance says, blushing from an odd feeling of embarrassment.

 

They shortly find their place in the rocky terrain, propping themselves right in front of the mouth of the cave so that if Lance stretched its legs, it would catch sunlight, and if Keith spat, it would meet the ocean.

 

They sit in silence for the first few minutes after settling down, both too mesmerized by the view to notice the quiet. There's an expanse of sea and an expanse of sky ahead of them, and Keith swears every time he comes here the image changes, as the two infinites fight for dominance of his field of vision.

 

But what’s comforting, and what’s so fascinating is that the sea and the sky always meet in the horizon. _Without fail, every time._ Keith thinks. He remembers what Allura said about home and thought maybe, this cave was one of his. He could make it one of his. It feels like it could be. A warmth comes over him, encasing his entire body.

 

“It’s nice in here.” Lance is the first to speak, and his voice echoes. _It’s symbolic_ , Lance notes. _I am at a horizon of light and dark. They fight for me._ Lance looks down on his stretched-out feet, the heat of the sunlight warming him up to his knees, and the shade of the cave cutting it short, seemingly expanding. Lance knows who will win.

 

But what’s comforting, and what’s so fascinating is how the cave sucks the sound of the ocean and spits it back out in repeated vibrations. _Without fail, every time._ Lance thinks. He has no reason to doubt, to think of whether the ocean is still there. The pattern is constant, consistent. It compels him to expect an echo. When the darkness comes for him, Lance hopes it will be at like this. A constant outpour of sound.

 

“Mm-hm. It is,” Keith says.

 

They have both laid their guard down at the damp rocks. In here, they speak as children. Nothing to fear, nothing to hide.

 

“Lance?” Keith says it so softly.

 

“Yep? I’m here” Lance assures him.

 

“I have a burning question”

 

“Fire away”

 

Keith, in fact, takes a while to “fire away” – as one might say – but Lance doesn’t push it. He sits and waits and listens to the waves til Keith bites his lips and comes out with it. “I – what does home feel like?”

 

It wasn’t a question he was expecting, or quite frankly knows the answer to. “Um, let’s see… I guess, a place where you… where you’re comfortable, where you can write, and you can read. A place like that.”

 

The feeling of his epiphany resurfaces. Keith finds himself overwhelmingly reassured by Lance’s answer. “I always thought it was a family thing,” he admits.

 

“What? No,” Lance says. “You think because you’re alone you don’t deserve a home?”

 

“How did you know I was?” Keith asks. “Alone, that is”

 

Lance shrugs. “I got a good eye”

 

Keith squints at the remark.

 

“Alright, fine, Hunk told me.”

 

Keith laughs. The sound bounces around the cave and into Lance’s brain. “Knew it.”

 

“Doesn’t seem to me like you are, though”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I mean, you have that… scary buff carpenter dude—”

 

“Kolivan”

 

“Yeah, yeah, and there’s Hunk, and Allura, Coran and the others”

 

“Well, yeah. Yeah, I guess we’re friends.” _But not family,_ Keith thinks.

 

“Exactly. You _do_ have friends, you know. You don’t always have to feel like you’re on your own.”

 

But he is. Keith thinks. He _is_ on his own. Always have, always will be. This anger inside him, this monster, he couldn’t let someone else carry it with him. Not again. Not after what happened to Shiro.

 

He bought into this once. This hope. But he’s learned from that mistake already. Two hospital beds and two surgeries ago. He is on his own. He has to be.

 

He finds that his elated mood has waned. Was that it? That’s how long an epiphany lasts? Keith’s hands are clenched into fists. It’s so hard to swim to the top, but so easy to sink to the bottom.

 

“Hey,” Lance says, and Keith snaps out of it. The fuse is stopped.

 

“What?”

 

“I get it. I want to be alone sometimes, too. But it’s nice to have people to trust, Keith. People who have your back. Don’t push them away.” He feels guilty saying it. After everything he’s done. How selfish he’s being. Part of him wants to run back to Altea. To all his friends. But the sunlight stings his legs, and he decides he deserves this. He deserves to be left alone. “But you’re allowed this, too. A home is not a family. Or a person. Or yourself. A home is just a place to stay, and somewhere to come back to”

 

“That’s… nice,” Keith says. “That’s nice, Lance.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t leave until nightfall.

 

Most of the time, they sit silently beside each other on the cave, preoccupied with their own thoughts. But every now and then, they talk to each other.

 

About their childhoods. Lance’s fights with his brothers. How hard it was when his dad left. Keith’s journey from home to home.

 

About North Daiba. Nice places such as this one, and how the mayor’s slowly ruining them for tourism revenues.

 

About the diner. Bouncing ideas off of each other. About what a home should look like. Keith’s epiphany high has gone away, but he doesn’t realize it with Lance’s enthusiasm for the future. He talks so much the voices in Keith’s head can’t get a word in.

 

When they come back to the diner, people await.

 

Hunk pulls Lance away with an unexplained look on his face.

 

Keith gets to Allura’s office and finds the door open. A tall man with long white hair inside. Suit and everything. Intrigued, he steps forward, overhearing a heated argument.

 

That night both boys realize that there are things they really can’t run away from.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell is this?” Allura stands up when he sees him.

 

“What? I can’t stop by to visit?” The man remarks.

 

“With a banker? I’m not stupid, you know. You’re appraising my diner.”

 

The man takes a seat, but his friend stands behind the door like a soldier. “In my defense, I tried to call you before coming here”

 

“I blocked your phone number”

 

“Understandable”

 

“Listen, whatever Zarkon’s—”

 

“My father’s got nothing to do with this”

 

“So you’ve now evolved to personally spite me?”

 

“Would you just—not see me as an enemy all the time?”

 

Allura breathes and sits down. “What. Do. You. Want. Lotor?”

 

“I’m buying it myself”

 

“It’s not for sale.”

 

“It’s gonna get taken away regardless”

 

“I’m figuring it out”

 

“Really, Allura? Are you really? Because last time I checked, you’re burning through your college fund to keep this place going”

 

“I have everything under control”

 

“No you don’t, I know you.”

 

“No, you don’t! You can’t say that anymore—We’re not—”

 

“I get it. I’m sorry. Just please. Hear me out.”

 

Allura gives him a chance.

 

“A joint ownership”

 

“ _Why?”_ Allura exclaims, exasperated. There’s an anger in her voice Keith’s never knew she was capable of. “Why would you do that?! Why—why would you do this to me?”

 

“It’s my home, too, Allura. I want to save it.”

 

Keith’s beside the door, confused. Clearly, Allura hasn’t been completely honest with him.

 

“Get out,” Allura tells them. “Get out of my diner.”

 

“We’ll be back”

 

Keith watches Lotor leave, his steps firm. Imposing. He towers over Keith, walking out with a straight posture. Behind him, the banker follows, clad in a suit as clean as Lotor’s. When Keith sees him, he freezes. They both do.

 

“K-Keith—?”

 

His world spirals down below him, the air going dense, the shock makes him lose his balance. The past has come for him, in the most unexpected of times. “ _Shiro_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK SO LONG IM SO FUCKING SORRY BUT IT'S 5K LONG I HOPE U FORGIVE ME


End file.
